


Love celestial too-

by varvarvar



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Minor Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Mutual Pining, kagehina and bokuaka only mentioned really, they watch the sunset together, tiny smidge of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:42:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25592983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varvarvar/pseuds/varvarvar
Summary: It is on these rare days, when Kenma concedes to leave the house and the weather does its best to prove him wrong about his hate for the outdoors, that he allows himself to love spring. Obviously, this kind of spring -warm, colourful and theirs- not the rainy mess that paints everything in grey and brown and pales in comparison to winter’s silver and white and autumn’s warm reds and browns.Perhaps, Kenma’s judgment is clouded by his feelings for Kuroo.-On their last spring together before graduation, Kuroo and Kenma spend a day at the park where they grew up; Kenma thinks a lot about their friendship and how he wishes it was something more.
Relationships: Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 44
Kudos: 129
Collections: Recommended KuroKen Fics





	Love celestial too-

**Author's Note:**

> ((There is a small mention of teenagers drinking beer))  
> -
> 
> Is it too late to touch you, Dear?  
> We this moment knew-  
> Love Marine and Love terrene-  
> Love celestial too-
> 
> (Emily Dickinson)

Contrary to popular belief, Kenma is able to admit when he is wrong. However, Kuroo doesn’t necessarily need to know that yes, he was right, a day to the park is a good idea.

It was unsurprisingly empty when they reached it, too soon for the children to be out of school, so when they finally got there, walking side by side from their houses, saying a quick goodbye to Kuroo-san, who had just waved distractedly from his laptop. They had the whole park for themselves; the place where they spent endless afternoons playing volleyball had remained the same and it was still shocking to see Kuroo’s tall silhouette where only a few years ago stood a shy, small kid, enthusiastically talking about sports and gripping Kenma’s hand as if it was his anchor.

So, that is how they ended up laying side by side, on the blanket Kenma’s mum and given them as soon as they were about to leave to go to Kuroo’s house, Kenma in the shade -because the sun is troublesome, it makes freckles appear on his nose and he overheats too easily- and his best friend in the sunshine. Kenma is sure there is some sort of symbolism behind why their preferences fit them so well, but he can’t really be bothered to think about it, when the sun is warm and the breeze spitefully pushes his shorter bangs in front of his face.

The sun warms the air around them without making it too hot. This is the warmest spring Kenma can remember, the kind that makes couples chose to have their weddings in May, that allows him to leave the house without a hoodie but only in a t-shirt, like the one he is wearing now, Kuroo’s favourite, with its soft lilac colour, the one Koutarou had gifted to him on his last birthday. His yellow high top converse are beside the blanket, blending in with the golden daffodils, next to Kuroo’s red running shoes, the ones that Kenma hates because of their colour -to Taketora’s dismay since it’s the same shade of red of Nekoma’s uniform- but also loves because they leave uncovered a generous amount of Kuroo’s slender yet powerful ankles, making him seem even taller than he actually is.

The breeze makes bits of dandelions fly around them, looking like the rare clouds above them just dissolved and are now falling above them or as if snow decided to visit Tokyo during the warm season, morphing to fit in with the rest of nature.It is on these rare days, when Kenma concedes to leave the house and the weather does its best to prove him wrong about his hate for the outdoors, that he allows himself to love spring. Obviously, this kind of spring -warm, colourful and _theirs_ \- not the rainy mess that paints everything in grey and brown and pales in comparison to winter’s silver and white and autumn’s warm reds and browns.

Perhaps, Kenma’s judgment is clouded by his feelings for Kuroo. He is laying on his back, his hand propped up behind his head to allow him to read a book, newly bought, Kenma can tell by the shiny cover and the careful way Kuroo’s long fingers touch it. It must be poetry, because every once in a while, Kuroo unlocks his phone to write down a number in his notes and Kenma knows that tonight he’ll open his journal, the one only Kenma knows about, to copy carefully words written by some dead author as if they were his own. Kuroo often reads poetry, he admitted once -making Yaku tease him for being a nerd- that he prefers it to prose, because it’s concise, straightforward, as effective as a chemical formula.

And Kuroo is so special and unique -so different from Keiji that reads massive volumes, buries his nose in Russian masterpieces that make him completely lose track of his surroundings- despite being so clichè at the same time. So, Kenma’s judgement surely must be clouded, because there is nothing special in reading Keats and Dickinson in the park where you grew up, in the warmest afternoon spring has ever offered you, next to your best friend. 

Kenma’s switch lays untouched on the blanket while he curls on his side around it, turned towards Kuroo.He is laying slightly lower than Kenma on the blanket, so from his perspective he can see Kuroo’s long, inky eyelashes resting against his sharp cheekbones, the ones that every year became more defined, the softness in his cheeks reducing each birthday, leaving Kuroo with features maybe unfit for a model, but that would surely make his beloved poets write dozens of verses. They certainty make Kenma’s fingers twitch with the need to grab a pencil and compare his ebony hair to the night sky and he really isn’t gifted with writing. Or maybe he just wants to comb his fingers through them. One of the two.

His t-shirt is an electric vibrant blue that should hurt Kenma’s eyes, when really it matches the cerulean sky that stretches above them. It has ridden up slightly from when Kuroo scratched his torso –“we are leaving as soon as an insect climbs on me” had muttered the older boy, carefully inspecting his body, his expression betrayed when Kenma had deadpanned “dramatic”- so now Kenma can see his abs, that never affect him in the changing room but leave him now with a dry mouth and heart palpitations. He really needs to make that blue t-shirt disappear since it also dips, exposing Kuroo’s collarbones, covered in the three freckles that appeared when he was thirteen. Kenma thinks he finally understands Shoyou’s panicked texts about Kageyama’s leggings or Keiji’s smitten expression whenever Koutarou got rid of his kneepads. 

Kuroo blinks slowly, drowsy because of the sun, as his eyebrows knit together with the effort of maintaining his concentration while reading. His ankles are crossed and his short white socks are green on the soles from when they had walked in the grass to befriend one of the stray cats that often visited the park. Kuroo had pouted when the cat had nuzzled Kenma’s hand instead of his, but he had been delighted when the calico had decided to lay a few feet away from the blanket, studying them with curiosity. Kenma is still staring -really at this point he should just turn the console off, suggests a voice in his head that annoyingly sounds like Yaku- when Kuroo stretches his right arm at the same time the cat flops on his side.

A giggle bubbles up from his throat before he can stop himself, looking at their movements in synch.

“What’s so funny? Was one of the lines in the game actually good?” asks Kuroo, looking up at him. Kenma had described the game after they lied down, admitting that the aesthetics were the main reason for which he liked it and that the dialogue needed improvement, especially the comedic parts.

When the sun hits his eyes, the pupils shrink instantly becoming tiny black dots, while golden specs dance in his irises, like a million of daffodils in a garden.

They are also a bit watery, maybe from the sun rays, most probably because of the last verse he read, Kenma can tell by how his breath had hitched slightly and how he moved quickly to write down the page in his phone; Kenma also knows that if he asked about it, Kuroo would deny it, because he can’t accept that he’s the kind of person who tears up because of beauty, despite doing it constantly, when reading, when watching a well shot Hollywood film, one of those in which the lines are perfectly delivered and well written and the cinematography makes him clutch at their shared pop corn container, coloured lights and unique palettes painting the protagonists skin.

“You know I have not been playing for the last half an hour.” he replies, rolling his eyes at Kuroo’s smug grin. His teeth are not perfect, some of them a bit smaller than the others, disproportionate, one could say, but they shine brightly when touched by the sun, complementing nicely Kuroo’s skin. He looks like a dream.

He might not be as observant as he is, but Kuroo notices the smaller things, if he decides to apply himself.

“Yeah, I do. What are you thinking about?” asks Kuroo, his eyes staring into Kenma’s, the nearness of his face making Kenma’s hands close around his console, seeking reassurance.

The answer- _you-_ is on the tip of his tongue, it dances on his lips, threatening to spill out without warning. It would be no earth-shattering event if he were to pronounce those three letters; Kuroo, bless him, would think nothing of it. Still, that option is a bit too close to the reality, so he shrugs.

He doesn’t blink while Kuroo searches for answers in his eyes, instead he placidly stares back, dreaming about how easy it would be to simply lean in and pepper kisses on the bridge of his nose, that together with his cheeks has been flushed for the last two hours because of the exposure to the sun. It serves nothing to suggest wearing sun cream, since Kuroo never burns. His skin will turn a lovely caramel colour on the face, arms and his legs, exposed by the jeans shorts, tight around his thighs enough to make Kenma stare for a few seconds every time he wears them. His legs look already more tanned in contrast with the baby blue of the blanket provided by the Kozumes; it smells like the laundry detergent that his mum uses and it’s incredibly soft against his cheek.

His impossibly long legs, muscular calves and thighs that seem to continue for kilometres, shake a bit when he stretches them, making Kenma close his fist tightly around the blanket, to make sure that his hands don’t betray him, moving and cupping Kuroo’s warm cheeks. They shake with longing, with want, twitching impatiently when he notices that Kuroo is so close, it would be the easiest thing in the world to stretch his fingers and simply touch him. Still, he doesn’t.

Kuroo seems satisfied despite the lack of answer and he turns back to his book, his hand languidly falling between him and Kenma as he turns on his side, fully facing him.

Kenma is not the kind of person to be moved by art. He can appreciate it in a detached way, praising brush strokes and word positioning from a technical point of view. However, his chest feels impossibly tight when Kuroo sometimes reads his favourite poems out loud to him. Maybe it’s the calm, low, nearly musical tone or maybe the emotion he feels vibrating behind each word, making them mean _something_ for once _,_ because if Kuroo chooses to read one, it’s because it has touched him in some way, but is feels like a revolution happening in his stomach every time. It’s intimate and Kenma feels silly enough to think that it’s theirs, as if no one else in the world reads poetry out loud for someone else. Kuroo’s emotions make the words lift from the page, leaving it blank, the passion behind each syllable makes the sentences dance around them, hoover in air as gnats. And after reading, he turns to look at him and his eyes are so expressive, Kenma struggles to keep up with all the emotions spilling from them. They are big, animated with something that is not competition, challenge or ambition. It’s softer yet brighter, Kenma freezes on the spot each time, yearning to make Kuroo look like that, as if his world has been turned upside down by a figure of speech, a camera angle, a chord progression. The same thing happened the only time they went to the museum: they had been quiet the entire time, except for Kuroo’s soft _oh_ s and the words of awe he had whispered directly into Kenma’s ear. He had blushed feeling Kuroo’s warm breath right against his neck, the admiration for the artist in his voice.

“Listen to this one, it’s-“ he cuts himself off, probably thinking his own words can’t describe what he’s feeling.

_Is it too late to touch you, Dear?_

_We this moment knew-_

_Love Marine and Love terrene-_

_Love celestial too-_

Kenma blinks, the words hanging above them like clouds of vapour. He manages to hum when Kuroo turns so look at his reaction, a darker blush on his cheeks, because talking about love turns him into the shy stuttering little kid he was all those years ago. The poem is easily one of the least impressive Kuroo has read him, mainly because he prefers the ones about other topics -the passage of time, the end of the seasons, dreams- however, it hits him just as hard as Cupid’s arrow did all those years ago, when he realised he was in love with Kuroo.

He looks at his hand, limp between them and surprisingly close to Kuroo’s arm. Is it too late to touch him? Has their friendship progressed too much at this point that if Kenma were to confess his true feelings, everything would be ruined?

He tries to distract himself from the intrusive thoughts by looking around and looking at Kuroo.

Kuroo’s hands are splayed on the book, supporting it, his thumb absent-mindedly stroking the polaroid he has chosen as bookmark. He probably didn’t mean to use the photo to keep track of his progress, since he has so many, all presents from his grandma, but the accident is a happy one, since it fits him so well. Kuroo will probably have pictures of the people he loves in his wallet or on his desk at work, and _please_ , thinks Kenma sending his plea to the stars, _let me be in one of them._

The polaroid is a badly lit one taken by Koutarou on the night of his birthday: he had captured four different photos for each of them -Kenma, Kuroo, Keiji and himself- as they were sipping beers on the top of his roof at three in the morning. (Kenma keeps his taped on his laptop: Koutarou making a silly face that made everyone dissolve in a fit of giggles. A lot of beer had been spilled.) The birthday boy is overexposed and extremely bright, his smile larger than life. To an attentive observer the reason for his excitement is clear: the hand that is not holding the camera is linked with Keiji’s, who in on his side. There’s a rare soft smile on the setter’s face, his curls slightly messed up, maybe because of the humidity of that night, maybe because of how many times Koutarou had buried his hands in them while they were all staring at the stars. At the time, the two players of Fukurodani were still not together, but Kenma and Kuroo had spent the night sharing looks whenever Koutarou whispered something in Keji’s ear or when they caught them staring at each other. To the left of the picture there is Kuroo, his face lit by the moonlight, the top of his ebony hair, resembling silver. He is not looking at the camera, but he is staring at Kenma, sat between his legs with his back rested against his chest. Kenma is looking straight at the lens, his cheeks slightly pink from the alcohol and from receiving Kuroo’s undivided attention. He remembers the warmth that spread on his face as if he was standing next to a bonfire, while Kuroo looked down at him, ethereal in the moonlight.

Kenma snaps out of his thoughts when Kuroo suggests having a snack. He magically summons cherries from the black backpack he had insisted on bringing and he places them in the middle, resting his book on his chest while closing his lips around the red fruit. They stain his lips a bit, making them red enough to match his running shoes, red enough to set Kenma’s insides on fire for at least two minutes before he manages to calm down fully.

He puts his console away, effectively giving up on doing anything that isn’t staring at Kuroo and pretend to rest his eyes whenever the other boy emerges from his reading, and he sighs feeling exhausted when the sun becomes gentle and golden, announcing its imminent departure. The shadows of some leaves are falling exactly on Kenma’s chest, now that he finds himself in the sun as well and he feels desperation claw at his chest at the thought of this perfect day ending. How cruel for the sun to set so soon, when spring is finally warm but not too warm and Kuroo has reached the second half of the poems.

His best friend looks as if he was made to be painted in warm colours; reds, oranges, warm browns and gold are the only colours that Kenma could use to draw Kuroo now if he had the talent, his eyelashes and nose setting longer shadows by the minute, his skin covered in goose bumps when the sun’s intensity decreases. His lips are still red and soft when they part slightly while he’s reading and Kenma has to stare at the lonely cloud above him for a long time to avoid rolling over a smashing his mouth against his friend’s.

“We should head back.” are the few words that break the magic, making Kenma and the calico tense up immediately. The sun is still in the sky, but only a few centimetres above the horizon and both of them are now fully in the shadow.

On the other side, the moon has risen, still hard to see with the amount of light coming from the sun. It’s a sharp sickle in the sky, a blade of white and silver that promises the end of the bliss.

“We could watch the sunset.” suggests Kenma, shivering slightly now that evening is approaching.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested in it.” notes Kuroo, lifting an eyebrow at the unexpected request. Kenma knows that feeling: it’s hard for them to surprise each other, now.

“I’m not, but you like it.” he replies simply, hoping that Kuroo will not read too much into it. He thinks back to the endless poems he had read to him today and how at least five of them had been about comparing the sun rising or setting to something. Kenma can’t really remember, the only clear memory is Kuroo’s trembling lips and the wonder in his eyes.

Kuroo looks fondly at him, the kind of look that always manages to remind Kenma how much he cares about him, despite not reciprocating his feelings. Just because Kuroo doesn’t want to kiss every inch of his sun kissed skin or tangle their legs together while he plays videogames and he reads, it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t care deeply about Kenma.

“We’ll miss dinner.” argues Kuroo, always putting others’ needs in front of his, always ready to give up on what he likes for someone else.

Kenma knows from quiet nights spent whispering in the dark that partly it’s simply in Kuroo’s blood to be selfless and so, so kind, partly it’s because he doesn’t think as highly of himself as he likes to make other people think he does.

“I know for a fact that you packed enough food in our bentos to feed the whole team.” he replies, rolling his eyes and sitting up.

“I simply enjoy begin prepared.” he laughs, -such a lovely sound, it makes Kenma’s heart stutter- his eyes entranced by the movement of Kenma’s hair.

The silence that follows is just like the ones that always settle between them: comfortable, one that speaks of years in each other’s company, of routine, domesticity and a deep understanding of each other.

“We’ll get cold.” mumbles Kuroo after a couple of minutes, his book now abandoned in favour of staring at the sky, rapidly changing above them. However, Kenma has the feeling of being watched whenever he looks away, so maybe Kuroo is paying as much attention to the sky as Kenma to his game earlier this afternoon.

He considers Kuroo’s words, knowing that after a day in the sun, even if the evening temperature will be mild, they’ll end up shaking because of the difference.

With a sigh and trembling hands, he carefully lowers himself next to his friend, this time closer than before. Kenma raises his eyebrow in a silent question, before Kuroo decides to put his arm around his waist and pull him towards his chest.

It’s not the first time they do this, obviously. Kuroo is a very affectionate person and Kenma gets cold easily, in addition to this, they have been always been comfortable around each other, stretching on the other’s bed, holding onto each other when they have to stand on the train, head in the other’s lap after an especially tiring match. But this, Kuroo’s strong arm around him, his slow breathing lulling him into a relaxed state, sharing the same oxygen feels like something different, able to make Kenma’s heart shake with the force of a thousand earthquakes, feels to much like what he yearns for every single day.

Kuroo is already radiating warmth that spreads instantly to Kenma’s body, giving him a valid excuse for the crimson on his cheeks.

The sky is objectively breath taking. While they were busy talking, the sun had disappeared under the horizon, setting the sky on fire. There is the thinnest line of pure sunlight near the horizon, a stunning yellow that with his limited knowledge, Kenma can only compare to Van Gogh’s. However, it’s slowly disappearing, transitioning into a rich orange that becomes darker and darker the more one looks away from where sky and earth meet. It becomes scarlet, an unsettling colour by itself that in the sky, next to pinks and oranges simply looks right. It’s gorgeous, a sunset that people would fail to capture in a picture. However, Kenma goes wide eyed once he turns to look back at Kuroo.

He wears the colours far better than the sky, the magenta of the clouds painting his skin in the softest pink, making him seem a watercolour painting. His eyes are big and they reflect all the colours above them, shining with awe and emotions that Kenma can only comprehend when staring at him. Kenma feels inadequate, insignificant in front of his beauty, his chest very close to exploding with the need to grab Kuroo’s face and kiss him until the sun is ready to rise again.

So, they wait, Kuroo gazing at the sky, endlessly trying to compare its beauty to something else –“a really good classical composition or jazz, the feeling of a warm drink in winter, something, solid, steady, a trustworthy feeling that makes you feel good in a predictable way, you know? I’m not talking about a concert or winning a match, that’s too much adrenaline”- and Kenma losing himself in Kuroo’s words, in the way he gesticulates, in his warmth, in the way the sky transforms him in the most beautiful painting he has ever seen.

“We should have dinner.” suggests Kuroo, when red, orange and yellow, change to lilac, pink and light blue.

Kenma prefers these pastel tones to the vibrant bleeding sky from earlier. They soothe him and the park looks like a magical place, where spirits and fairies could live. He ends up deciding that the purples look best on his friend, complementing his dark hair and golden irises. The lampposts at the edges of the park have turned on, turning the dark blue trees in silvery figures. Kuroo sets once again a bento in between them and it looks so domestic and just right, that Kenma misses his quiet _Itadakimasu_ and he has to mutter his under his breath.

When Kuroo opens the bento, Kenma scowls.

“You could have packed less vegetables.” he mumbles, munching on a piece of chicken. He hums around the food, enjoying its rich flavour. Kuroo was a really good cook, since he started very early helping his grandparents in the kitchen.

“They are good for you, kitten.” he sighs deeply, happily eating the spinach Kenma is pushing in his direction.

“You don’t need to sound so disappointed. You know I am not a fan of vegetables.” he mumbles, the nickname so familiar and yet so shocking every time he chooses to use it.

“I just,” Kuroo looks wrecked for a moment, absolutely devastated, causing Kenma to stand straight in alarm, before he schools his face into a small smile -not a fake one, because he can’t be anything other than genuine, but a weak, resigned one- “I just wish you took better care of yourself. I am not always going to be here. I know you are responsible and mature, but sometimes you neglect your wellbeing.”

He doesn’t sound accusing, but Kenma moves his eyes quickly to meet his.

“You are not?” he decided on asking, hating how weak his voice sounds, every syllable an inch closer to breaking.

Kuroo looks at him in confusion, his chopsticks stopping mid-air as he tries to understand what Kenma is referring to.

“You are not always going to be here?” he explains, his fingers tapping on his thigh a steady rhythm, wishing his heart would beat in a similar manner, instead of thumping like a machine gun in a battle royale videogame.

Kuroo shoulders slump and his lips shake for the scariest moment in Kenma’s life. He had never made Kuroo cry before and he never wants to be the reason for his tears. 

“Kenma,” and he sounds so defeated, that Kenma finally feels bad for obviously ignoring the elephant in the room -Kuroo leaving him, his home, Nekoma to go to some impressive university for people as gifted as him- for always forcing that role to him, “you know what I mean.”

And obviously he does but at the same time, he isn’t sure he agrees. Of course, Kuroo moving will tear him apart. To everyone else it may seem dramatic, but Kuroo, Kenma and their families know that it will be tough for both of them. There is something so inexplicable and yet so heartbreaking in knowing he will have to take the train alone twice every day and practice with the team without Kuroo at his side. That all his quiet moments will truly be quiet because Kuroo won’t be there with a book or peering over his shoulder to see him play a videogame, asking questions about each character. Kenma knows already that it will feel like suddenly someone will have removed the very ground from underneath his feet. 

But at the same time, it doesn’t feel like the end. He sees it in Kuroo’s shaking hands when they talk about choosing universities, in Kuroo’s grandma reassuring smile when she plans her 80th birthday, promising Kenma she will bake his favourite cake so they can all celebrate together as a family, like they do every year.

The certainty that Kuroo cares about him, them, as much as he does is what makes him so sure they will be fine.

“I thought you said that I am never getting rid of you _.” And God, please, make it true, make us inseparable._

Kuroo seems to understand his train of thought -doesn’t he always?- relaxing at his joke and gripping his chopsticks with new found strength at Kenma’s silent promise.

“It’s true. You are stuck with me now.” he confirms, pushing spinach in Kenma’s direction.

 _I’ll take care of you as long as you want me to,_ is what it means.

“See? No need to worry. You were just being silly and dramatic.”

“I wasn’t!”

“You were.”

“Was not.

“Was too.”

They end up giggling. The bento is finished, all the spinach in Kuroo’s stomach and a silent promise sealed with only the sky as their witness.

“Since we’re here, we should stay to see the stars.” announces Kuroo, laying down once again, pressing his forehead against Kenma’s shoulder like a needy cat.

“We’re in Tokyo, Kuro. It’s too polluted.” notes Kenma.

However, he still melts against him, mesmerised by the abstract patterns Kuroo’s fingertips are drawing on the blanket in the space between them. His long fingers randomly moving, his painted nails -lilac and black, because Oikawa needed to practice, apparently- a splash of colour. The sky is rapidly darkening. The purple near the horizon melts into the darkest blue that envelops the moon.

“Fair.”

The simple word is whispered so close to his face that Kenma wonders for a moment if he has missed something.

If maybe, Kuroo feels exactly like him, and that’s why he’s so close that their breaths are mingling.

So, he turns slightly towards him, before realising his mistake.

Kuroo’s mouth is right there, his lips parted and slightly chapped, his nose touching Kenma’s.

He had thought that Kuroo would be looking at the sky, his eyes big, blue and white and purple, his smile stretched in a grin at the beauty of it, his head full of poems and notes. Instead Kuroo is tense against his side, his eyes gazing so intensely at Kenma’s lips, he feels them burning.

This silence isn’t comfortable, isn’t routine. It’s tense and charged, it holds so many possibilities that Kenma’s head spins, drunk with the potential, the opportunities, the absolute terror.

And then –“Kenma” so breathy, so desperate- it shatters. Kuroo doesn’t demand it, because he never asks Kenma anything, he gives and gives and gives like he always has.

He leans in immediately, because if he stops to think about it, he will back down. And Kuroo had pleaded, he had the strength to shatter the quiet, -that was so scary and unfamiliar, but also exciting- so Kenma has to be brave enough to kiss him. It shouldn’t be scary, for most people it probably wouldn’t be. Kuroo is attractive, so beautiful and flawed yet gorgeous, anyone would feel delighted at the prospect of kissing him. Kenma instead feels his very core shake with so much longing and dread, the contrast so stark, the paradox so absurd, it makes his head spin. He is not going to kiss the version of Kuroo that everyone sees, the cool captain, the trustworthy upperclassman, effortlessly attractive. No, Kenma will kiss the dorky teenager, the diligent son, the selfless friend, Kuroo stretching in the sun, Kuroo reading poetry with teary eyes, Kuroo sobbing because of a lost a match, Kuroo painted in lilac, red, yellow, every version of him, every part of his soul. Terror’s claws dig in his chest as he closes his eyes and kisses Kuroo’s lips.

But then, Kuroo’s hand -trembling incredibly, just as much as Kenma’s heart- cups his cheek so gently and carefully, as if Kuroo is touching the most precious thing, and all Kenma can feel is a wave of happiness so strong, it makes him dizzy, that if he was standing, he would have to collapse gracelessly on a chair, because of shaking knees. Kisses do not feel like fireworks. But Kuroo’s mouth moving away from his and then meeting him again in the middle, as if it was meant to be, as if their lips were magnets being pushed and pulled, is an otherworldly experience, that no sentence could ever describe. Kuroo’s breath is red-hot against his cupid’s bow, his hand still on his cheek, the stroking of his thumb should feel grounding, but the care, the reverence behind the gesture makes supernovas explode behind his eyelids. The sound of their fast breaths, of their lips meeting again and again is addicting, and Kenma buries his fingers in Kuroo’s messy hair just to grip onto something, feeling like a seashell being swept away by the tide, swaying with every wave. He nearly sobs when Kuroo sucks on his bottom lip, his technique messy, his emotions pouring in every movement, their teeth knocking together at least three times, Kenma’s accidentally dragging against Kuroo’s lip making him shudder against him. When Kuroo’s tongue touches his, Kenma is sure is whole body is on fire, the skin of his jaw incandescent where Kuroo’s hand is firmly holding it, as their kisses turn more frantic and desperate. When they break apart -simply because they have to breathe- Kenma grips Kuroo’s hair more, keeping him close enough that their noses are still touching.

“Kenma,” Kuroo’s eyes are filled with unshed tears, but the wrinkles on their corners are from smiling, so Kenma simply wipes away Kuroo’s tears with his thumb, smiling like a fool when he realises that his own cheeks are wet, “Kenma,” repeats Kuroo, apparently unable to continue the sentence, happy with his name on his tongue. Kenma doesn’t blame him, since he knows that if he tried to speak his voice would shake too much “you too?”

And it feels soothing to know that he is able to read the Kuroo In Love with Him, as well as His Bestfriend Kuroo. The realisation of that kiss being the end of the first chapter of their relationship and the begging of another one is so reassuring that breathless laughter leaves his lips, his short breaths hitting Kuroo’s still wet lips, so red and inviting and now accessible that Kenma nearly forgets to answer.

“Of course, Kuro.” he nearly sobs, gently petting Kuroo’s hair when his eyes shine again with tears and his mouth parts in shock.

They manage to calm down after a while, even if each kiss feels like revolution. Kuroo’s fingers are tangled in his hair and every time they part for air, Kenma whispers _Tetsurou_ , because he seems unable to say anything else and because Kuroo’s breath itches each time. Kuroo still touches him as if he is made of crystal, each stroke on his bare skin speaking of worship and unconditional love, while Kenma can’t help but anchor himself, while gripping his hair, digging his fingers so tightly in his skin as if he wants to crawl in there and hide forever, his touch scotching, a love brighter than any sun, kisses that feel like finally coming home.

“That’s what that sunset felt like.” whispers distractedly Kuroo, his eyes half lidded and soft.

So, with the comfort of knowing that the sun sets each day, Kenma tangles his fingers with Kuroo on his way back home.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> I apologize because this one shot is extremely self indulgent, pretentious and at the same half assed lol  
> It's the first work I ever publish in the hq fandom so let me know if you have any suggestion to make me improve. I got the idea by sunbathing on my balcony in May during quarantine while reading and I decided to throw in one work all of my favourite things: pining kuroken, sunsets and poetry.  
> (I headcanon Kuroo as a secretly emotional literature nerd because I tend to project on my favourite characters, sorry)  
> I also apologize for any mistake or weird construct since English isn't my first language and I don't have a beta; let me know if I should correct something!  
> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> (come cry with me about kuroken on twitter, if you want: @varivarvar)


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